


Stay a Child

by ijustwanttodestroy



Series: the truth must dazzle gradually/or every man be blind [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick Grayson is Robin, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Humor, gala - Freeform, light fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-30 14:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15098102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustwanttodestroy/pseuds/ijustwanttodestroy
Summary: “Redo it,” Bruce orders.“Aw, come on!” Dick dares to pout — a thing that he uses often, and would work on anyone but Bruce and Alfred. Sometimes.Bruce gives him a look. “I’m not going to do it for you.”“I’m going to misdo it until you do,” Dick threatens.[Two times Dick went to a gala with Bruce and one time he didn’t.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While you can be a child.

_“_ This sucks,” Dick says. “Can’t I just wear a shirt? _Or_ — hear me out, hear me out — can’t I just _not_ go?”

 

“No,” Bruce says. “Your tie isn’t straight — “ his hands start fiddling with Dick’s tie, before stopping. They look at each other. Bruce forces his hands to stay at his sides. “Redo it,” Bruce orders.

 

“Aw, come on!” Dick dares to pout — a thing that he uses often, and would work on anyone but Bruce and Alfred. Sometimes.

 

Bruce gives him a look. “I’m not going to do it for you.”

 

“I’m going to misdo it until you do,” Dick threatens.

 

Bruce raises an imperious eyebrow. Dick returns with his own eyebrow, a move he adopts from Bruce. Neither yields in their eyebrow rise battle.

 

“I know you hate crooked tie,” Dick says. “So you either see me with a crooked tie the whole night, or — “

 

“Redo it.”

 

“You asked for it,” Dick huffs, and redoes his tie. “Ugh, holy _pinstripes_.”

 

Bruce gives him another look. “I told you to stop doing that _holy_ bit.” It’s — unfortunately — _really_ catching on. The other day, Clark said _holy emotional repression, Batman_ to him in the middle of an intergalactic fight. Bruce didn’t appreciate it.

 

“You like that bit,” Dick argues, if a little distractedly, going at it with his tie. He is really focusing on tying that tie. If there is something Dick doesn’t excel at, it’s being tidy. Organized. Following the rules of _things_.

 

The likes.

 

“I don’t.”

 

“You do. You just pretend that you don’t.”

 

“Tie that tie.”

 

Dick huffs once again. “Next time we are having this gala thing, I’ll be wearing a dress.”

 

Bruce shrugs. “If you want.”

 

“Ooh, we should do a twinsies. We should _both_ wear a dress.”

 

Bruce thinks about it. Hm. “Eh.” He doesn’t exactly dislike suits, but. “If you want.”

 

“I think we’d both look _dashing_ in periwinkle blue — brings out our eyes, y’know,” Dick says. He presents his tie. “How’s it?”

 

“Mediocre.” Dick rolls his eyes — another move that he adopts from Bruce. Or perhaps Alfred. Probably both.

 

“Gee, thanks, Cap’n Grump,” Dick stands up from his seat in the bed — his height is almost reaching Bruce’s shoulders now. Well. Not almost. Not for another year, probably. Dick hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet, which makes him look like a bit overripe ten year old, at most.

 

Bruce gives him the comm. Dick sets it on his suit as a lapel pin and does a test sound. They’re good to go. They look at each other.

 

“I hate your stupid galas,” Dick tells him.

 

“I hate my stupid galas, too,” Bruce tells him.

 

Dick shakes his head ruefully as he walks down the hall with Bruce. “Holy _bourgeoisie assholes_ , Batman.”

 

There is a tug on the corner of Bruce’s mouth that attempts to become a full blown smile — and succeeds. “I expect an added quarter in the swear jar.”

 

“Worth it,” Dick says. “You laughed.”

 

“Watch it. I haven’t forgotten that — “ Bruce sighs, as if in pain, as he always does whenever he remembers this _particular_ thing that actually _happened_ “ — that _Karl Marx incident_ with Mrs. Miller.”

 

“Hey,” Dick says, with an entirely guiltless voice. “ _She_ started it — “

 

“Accusing Gotham Academy of, quote, ‘endorsing the force that has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation’ unquote, in your essay?” Bruce deadpans.

 

Dick shrugs. “She kept calling _me_ a spoiled brat, and calling _you_ a spoiled good-for-nothing douchebag — I’m paraphrasing — _and_ that was a pretty good essay, you know.” As if that justifies anything.

 

And it actually _was_. Bruce _was_ impressed when he read it in the principal office, to the point that he had to remind himself to actually _scold_ Dick. It could use some more formatting, and some better choices of words, but overall. “You are _fourteen_. You aren’t supposed to be quoting _The Communist Manifesto_.”

 

“Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution,” Dick says, solemnly. With a very small amount of irony. Bruce sighs. He wasn’t this difficult as a child — was he? He was. Alfred would vouch.

 

Sometimes Dick painstakingly reminds him of himself that it’s — well — _painstaking_.

 

They both have stopped in front of the ballroom door. Bruce turns to Dick.

 

“Two hours, and then you can go upstairs. And _no alcohol_. Alfred and I will be watching you.”

 

“I don’t know what that is,” Dick says with a cherubic expression. “What’s that? Some kind of _entrée_?”

 

Bruce stares at him, unimpressed. “I know you’ve been sneaking some with Wally West, Chum.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dick declares. He sighs at Bruce’s expression, as if _Bruce_ is the one being exasperating. “Relax. I won’t get into any trouble. Promise.”

 

Bruce grunts. The last time they hosted a gala — half a year ago — Dick had _nearly_ gotten kidnapped, and ‘accidentally’ lit three of the kidnappers’ pants on fire.

 

“I _won’t_.” Dick says disarmingly, which would work on anyone but Bruce and Alfred. He checks his oxfords for dirt — they’re squeaky clean, glinting under the light. “Two hours, no alcohol — whatever _that_ is — a piece of cake, B. Speaking of, did you get that panna cotta catering we had the other day?”

 

Bruce grunts. “Sweet,” Dick says, which Bruce realizes is a pun. Dick does fingerguns at him.

 

Bruce stares at him, more and more unimpressed by the second, and frankly — a little in pain. “Dick,” he says. “ _No_ looking for trouble. Two hours.”

 

“Me, trouble? My!” Dick says, doing a terrible accent impression, as he spins to open the door, preparing an especially adorable entrance as Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s ward. “ _Pourquoi, jamais_!”

 

But the thing is, _the thing is_ , Dick Grayson does not _look_ for trouble — most of the time, trouble finds _him_.

 

“I’m _serious_.”

 

“Hi, Serious,” Dick opens the door, a million dollar grin fixed on his face. “I’m Dick.”

 

The night hasn’t even begun yet, and Bruce is already getting a headache. Can’t keep the smile blooming on his face at bay, though.


	2. Chapter 2

“A bit underdressed, don’t you think, Master Dick?”

 

Dick glances at Alfred in the mirror. “Eh,” Dick says, looking down at himself, fingers idly tinkering with a cufflink. He is wearing a grey dress shirt.“They love it when I’m underdressed. In fact, they’d love it more if I’m — “

 

“We will not have you attend the gala _undressed_ , Master Dick,” Alfred says, closing the door behind him. “No matter the inordinate amount of requests for it.”

 

“Well,” Dick sighs, as Alfred opens the wardrobe, shifting through Zegnas and Armanis. “That's a shame. For the guests, of course.”

 

Alfred, admirably, does not dignify Dick with so much as a sigh, venturing the wardrobe. Dick does not have the grace to look the slightest bit ashamed. He tilts his head at the mirror. His shirt feels a bit tight, somehow, around the shoulders and his chest — when was the last time he’d worn this? 

 

 Alfred turns and holds a suit up for him. His final pick, draped on his forearm, is a Brioni. Dick regards it for a moment.

 

“Not that one,” Dick says finally. He takes it from Alfred’s hands and sets it on the bed. He crosses the room to reopen his wardrobe. “Too small.”

 

Alfred raises a questioning eyebrow. It was a good pick. “Too small?” he gives Dick a once over. “You gained muscles, I see,” he states, his tone neutral.

 

“Oh, you know,” Dick says breezily, picking through the fabric. “Job demands. Had to buff it up more.”

 

Alfred inspects him silently as he picks through the myriad of expensive suits. “Pity,” he says. “The Brioni would suit you better.” The shade of blue would bring out Dick’s eyes well.

 

“Please,” Dick says, turning his head a little. He shoots Alfred a sly, salacious smile, the kind he throws around carefreely to audience. Couldn’t fool Alfred Pennyworth, though. “You know I’d look good in anything.”

 

Alfred puts a hand over the left side of his chest. “Be still my beating heart,” he says dryly. “I believe I am too old for you, Master Dick.”

 

“Hah!” Dick barks an unflattering laugh. He turns around, a suit of choice in hand.

 

“Black?” Alfred inquires, somehow able to convey his surprise and confusion through the sheer neutrality of his inflection. It’s a talent, really, one that Dick has always wished to master. “If my memory serves, sir — and I believe it still does — you have a particular distaste for black suits.”

 

Dick picks a charcoal colored tie. “That I do,” he says, somewhat distractedly, attempting to put it on. Alfred can’t see his face from this angle. Blithely, he adds, “they remind me of funerals.”

 

Dick turns. He presents his tie. “Am I straight?”

 

“Not quite,” Alfred sighs. He walks forward, fiddling with said tie. “And that was not an invitation for a pun.”

 

Dick shakes his head ruefully. “Sometimes I think you know me a little too well, Alf.”

 

Alfred gives him an unimpressed look. “And yet it escapes me, sir, that you are able to master hundreds of rope knots and still fail to tie a simple windsor.” He finishes, and steps back, looking quite pleased of his handiwork.

 

“Alfred,” Dick looks down at his tie. “How do you suppose I would manage to _untie_ an _eldredge_?”

 

“I suppose you would find a way,” Alfred says, his tone impeccably straight as always. “If my memory serves, a certain _boy wonder_ declares himself a master escape artist at fourteen.”

 

Dick does not pout like a fourteen year old then, but it is close. “Touché.” He checks himself at the mirror. Alfred stands behind him.

 

“How do I look?” Dick grins at him. It almost looks genuine. “Let me guess — it starts with an ‘h’ and ends with a ‘t’. Is it a three letter word?”

 

Alfred raises an imperious eyebrow — another talent that Dick has always wished to master — though something ticks on his jaw in amusement. “You look dashing, sir,” he concedes indulgently. And then he adds, smiling, tender and maybe — a little mournful. “You look — “ he pauses. “Grown up.”

 

And he does. Dick regards his reflection. The suit fits him well enough, if slightly too tight. He doesn’t look dashing. He doesn’t think so, at least. Dark circles under his eyes, the half-healing bruise on top of his left cheekbone hidden by a generous amount of concealers. And yet, his pallor is a wrong shade. A little too pale, maybe. He looks tired.

 

Blue eyes, dark hair, black suit, he looks — _just_ like —

 

Dick doesn’t return the smile. “Is Tim coming?”

 

“I’m afraid not.”

 

Dick isn’t surprised. Tim hasn’t been returning his calls. And texts. Hasn’t talked to him at all, in fact. “I see,” Dick says.

 

Alfred sighs. “Master Dick..”

 

“Is it selfish,” Dick begins, staring hard at his own reflection, “that I wish he were here?”

 

The _he_ in question isn’t specified, whether it’s Tim, or —

 

But Alfred, as always — indeed — knows him a little too well.

 

Alfred gazes at him in the mirror, hard, but his voice is unbearably gentle. “Then we would _both_ be selfish, Master Dick.”

 

A beat passes. And then Dick smiles — quite possibly, the first real one in a long time —tender, and maybe, a little mournful. Worn out around the edges. “He hated galas,” Dick says.

 

“He did,” Alfred agrees. He returns the smile. “Until you came.”

 

Dick’s gaze catches Alfred in the mirror. For a moment, Dick’s smile twists into something frail, something like cracked glass, and he looks like he is about to cry. But then that moment passes, and Dick turns to face him, looking at something beyond Alfred’s shoulders. “Damian?” Dick calls, softly. Alfred turns to the door, following suit.

 

Damian has opened the door without a sound, standing by the frame with his arms crossed, and that eternal pout on his face. He insists it’s not a pout. It’s definitely a pout.

 

“What is it?” Dick says.

Damian’s scowl hardens further, if it’s possible. He tilts his chin up, haughtily, a ten year old in a custom-made Armani. The rich, dark moss shade of it brings out his eyes well. “You took too long,” Damian says, vice lacing his every word. “I was wondering if you had choked yourself with your tie.”

 

Green eyes, dark hair. He looks _just_ like Bruce.

 

Dick smiles, tilting his head to the side. “Your comm working?” he says to his lapel pin. “Yes,” Damian replies, his voice clear through Dick’s earpiece.

 

“Good,” Dick says, and he adds, “y’know, it’s _sweet_ that you care,” in that saccharine, teasing voice that he knows Damian especially hates.

 

Damian glares. If looks could kill. “Watch it, Grayson,” he says — snarls, really — and leaves in that silent way of his. Both Alfred and Dick watch as he does so.

 

“Well,” Dick stares at the door. It’s actually starting to be _cute._ Or perhaps Dick is losing his mind. That is probably the case. “I better get going before he stabs anyone. Or light them on fire.”

 

“Excellent thinking, sir,” Alfred agrees.

 

“Two hours and he can go upstairs. Two hours is okay, right?”

 

“I believe so, sir.”

 

“Alright. I can handle two hours.” Dick pauses. “Right?”

 

“Indubitably, sir.”

 

“One thing, though,” Dick stops at the door. “Was I that difficult as a child?”

 

Dick looks at Alfred. Alfred looks at Dick. Alfred clears his throat.

 

“On second thought,” Dick says, his voice slipping by the distance as he walks down the hall, “don’t answer that.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr if you want to tell me anything](https://i-just-want-to-destroy.tumblr.com)   
> 


End file.
